


T.M.I.

by Zoe Rayne (MontanaHarper)



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-10-17
Updated: 2003-10-17
Packaged: 2017-10-02 11:17:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MontanaHarper/pseuds/Zoe%20Rayne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Buffy stood in the doorway of her bedroom—or what <strong>used</strong> to be her bedroom, anyway—trying not to hyperventilate. The last normal thing in her life was being ripped away from her and no one seemed to be noticing or caring. "You filled it with packing crates," she said, hearing the tremble in her voice and angry that she hadn't been able to control it. The Slayer did <strong>not</strong> cry.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	T.M.I.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a missing scene from "The Freshman." Just a bit of mostly fluff. I started it for Kate Bolin's "National Coming Out Day" challenge in October of 1999. Hah! That tells you how long it takes me to write. One little story, four years.

Buffy stood in the doorway of her bedroom—or what _used_ to be her bedroom, anyway—trying not to hyperventilate. The last normal thing in her life was being ripped away from her and no one seemed to be noticing or caring. "You filled it with packing crates," she said, hearing the tremble in her voice and angry that she hadn't been able to control it. The Slayer did _not_ cry.

"Yes," her mother admitted. "But I didn't move anything." Like that was some kind of consolation. It was still her room, and Mom hadn't moved anything...just filled it with pieces of her _own_ life until Buffy's life was completely overshadowed.

"If it's still my room, shouldn't I be able to fit in it?" She knew that her mother hadn't done it on purpose. She even knew that it wouldn't have bothered her under other circumstances. Right now, though, she was feeling like she had on her first day of kindergarten, watching through the blur of tears as her mother's back disappeared through the door and she was left, trapped and scared, with a bunch of strangers.

Caught up the painful memory, Buffy almost missed her mother's next words. "Well, it's just for a couple of weeks, while we do inventory at the gallery. I just really didn't think you'd be back so soon."

"Neither did I," she said softly.

"Buffy," a hand, light on her shoulder, "while you're here, I think there's something we need to talk about."

Buffy's heart sank. The phrase of doom. Obviously her life was destined to suck...even more. She allowed her mother to lead her into the living room, sat obediently on the couch and stared at her hands folded in her lap, waiting for the axe to fall.

Her mother sat down next to her, but didn't make any move to start the conversation. The silence stretched awkwardly until Buffy opened her mouth to say something—anything—to break it.

"It's been hard, you know, since your father and I split up."

As announcements go, it was pretty much a duh-channel statement, so Buffy waited, figuring there had to be more to it than that. She picked at her nails without really noticing, chipping away the pale pink polish.

"And then there was Ted. What a mistake that was." This time the pause was only two heartbeats long. "I'm sorry, Buffy. About not believing you...."

Buffy looked up, startled. They hadn't really talked about Ted, once the situation was over. Her mother was staring down at the coffee table, examining it like Giles would examine some dusty old book written by a dusty old monk a thousand years ago.

"Then there was that...unfortunate incident with Xander, which I just cannot explain and try not to even think about."

Buffy couldn't agree enough. Xander's love spell had been so bad, on so many levels, that they'd all pretty much agreed—without discussion—never to mention it again.

"Ripper...Mr. Giles, I mean...well, that was a mistake of a different kind." Before Buffy could voice one of the many expressions of ick that the mere thought of Giles and her mother brought to mind, her mother raised one hand and continued, "I know, I know. Never tell you about that. I won't, I promise. But I just needed you to understand where I'm coming from."

Buffy shook her head and turned sideways on the couch, facing her mother. "I'm not getting where you're coming from. I'm not getting where you're going to. I am way in need of GPS, or at least a map. If you're trying to say that guys suck...." She paused and took a breath. The merest thought of Angel _still_ made her want to go all weepy. "Well, I already know that guys suck. Life goes on and I'll be fine."

Shaking her head, her mother finally raised her gaze to meet Buffy's. "No, it's not that. Well," she admitted, "not _much_. Mostly I just wanted you to know that Pat will be moving in this weekend."

Pat? The book club fruitcake? "Isn't she dead?" Buffy remembered very clearly slamming the blade of the shovel into Pat's—well, the demon mask's—eyes.

"What? Oh, no, she's much better." Her mother was still looking at her earnestly.

Okay, so Pat, living in _her_ house? In _her_ room, probably, since her mother's office wasn't likely to get transformed into roommate-land anytime soon. 'It's still your room,' her mother's voice replayed in her head, this time in a sarcastic tone.

"You're renting out my room? _My_ room? The one that's still mine, even though it currently looks like a storage lot?" she demanded, disbelieving.

Her mother's cheeks flushed red. "No, Buffy. Don't make this any harder for me. You _know_ what I mean."

Buffy started to shake her head, to protest her complete lack of clue with regard to the situation, when sudden realization dawned. "You don't mean that Pat is moving _in_ with you?! I mean, in the _out_ sense of moving in?" The thought was beyond scary and she searched her mother's face for any sign that she was wrong.

"In a way...."

"In _what_ way, Mom? Is she or is she not moving in as your..." a pause, searching for a politically correct term, then giving up and continuing, "...your _girlfriend_?"

"I suppose you could call her that," her mother said.

Buffy stared down at her mother's hands, clasped so tight in her lap that the knuckles were white. She felt like she was disconnected; everything was quieter and farther away than it should be. She remembered those hands, pressing coolly against her forehead when she had a fever and gently cleaning and bandaging skinned knees.

"I know this is difficult for you to understand, Buffy—"

"No," Buffy interrupted, still watching her mother's hands, "it's all right. I just didn't know you were.... Well, I didn't think Pat was your type. But if you're happy, that's all that matters." She looked up into surprised blue eyes and found that it was all right after all.


End file.
